Friday, March 25, 2011

the randomness of PMS-tropolis

So I've been on a little holiday. It was decided for me, against my will, that I would take a quick trip to PMS-tropolis. It's ugly here. Grey skies, cold chill in the air, stupid people. Apparently in PMS-tropolis you aren't allowed to sleep much and when you do you are required to have stress and anxiety as your bedfellows. I hate stress and anxiety in my bed, they hog the sheets and jam their knees in my back while I slumber.

The man and I have recently discovered the comicality of The Big Bang Theory. It is hysterical. It's buffoonery makes me laugh out loud, which is highly unusual for me. I have the unique capability to watch the funniest of funny movies and never so much as crack a smile and then claim at the end that it was, indeed, the funniest of funny movies. It's a gift really.

The Big Bang Theory makes me giggle. But what makes me laugh is listening to the man guffaw, or chortle, or twitter with glee every 24.7 seconds at this super geeky yet highly entertaining show.

On this most recent trip to PMS-tropolis I decided to have a little get together. A small gathering of friends. The man and myself and The Big Bang Theory on box set. But something went horribly awry. Instead of all the delicate and cute giggling I normally do, I wanted to jump through the screen, grab Sheldon by the throat and make him beg for mercy for being so completely and absolutely exasperating.

I sat, crammed in my wedge on the sectional, my little cocoon of couch comfort, dividing my attention between watching this ridiculous character be so hugely irritating and my husband who could barely get a grip on himself due to all the laughing.... and guffawing.

I picked up my cell and played solitaire. As soon as the episode was done I stood and declared "I'm out! Why hasn't someone killed that annoying little man yet?"

The man looked at me and said "you're out? But we only watched two."

To which I responded "yes, well it's either him or me buddy. Take your pick. I can't stand one second more."

To which he thought really hard "why are you so horrible? And did you happen to pick up your happy pills this month?"

To which I said out loud, in response to his thought, which I just so happened to be able to read on his face "I ran out of happy pills and before I can go get more I better not be left alone in the room with Sheldon Cooper." Exit me.

There are birds trying to peck a hole in my house outside of where I sleep. Tiny little birds. Tiny little determined birds. Tiny little determined stupid birds that have clearly learned nothing over the past year. Remember the great bird massacre, you stupid little tiny determined birds with no ability to choose right from wrong? Remember what the man did to your kind? Keep at 'er, my nasty tiny little determined stupid friends and I'm sure he'll be happy to make a sequel to one of the most troubling days of my life.

I despise birds and their miniscule pecking beaks that cause wreckage and ruin.

Jack, who is 11, came to me the other day and said "I want a million dollars." (Who needs a segue? Pfft.....)

I said or sang "If I had million dollars I would take you on a trip." Stop singing and speaking now, "where would you want to go?"

Him: "Hoboken."

Me: "Hoboken? As in New York? Huh?"

Him: "Yep, I'd wanna go to Hoboken to see the Cake Boss. I'd tell him to make me a cake and because we had a million dollars he would do it."

Me: "Any particular cake you had in mind?"

Him: "Yep. A marble pound cake with a cream cheese filling and a ganache."

I laughed until I cried and then I questioned the normalcy of my children's love for the cake boss. Should I be worried?

Years ago I read a book called The Pilot's Wife. Everyone, has read this book. Oprah picked it eventually for her book club but I had already read it so for about 13 seconds I felt cooler than Oprah. I actually can't stand Oprah so it irritates me when she picks awesome books for her book club and I haven't read them yet.

Anyway, I really loved The Pilot's Wife so next I read The Weight of Water, by the same author. That book was even better. She became my author. I decided to read every book she ever wrote and I did. Fortunes Rocks was awesome and then Sea Glass........

I wanted to be Anita Shreve.

This went downhill quickly.

This women is obviously under some sort of contract to pump out a book a year but she clearly needs more time. Every three years, or so, she writes a book that is barely tolerable. This last one, Rescue, was the biggest piece of garbage I may have ever subjected my pretty green eyes to reading.

I think I may need a new author. Who is your author?

What is the point of this scattered and random post? Surely you know better than to ask a guest of PMS-tropolis that question.

1 comment:

  1. Good God, I'm exhausted just reading this! You sound how I feel (guess who won't take a bottle again today)!

    My author is Atwood - I just love her!